Dash of Peril. Lori Foster

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      CHAPTER ONE

      FROZEN PELLETS OF sleet carried by the icy March winds stung Lieutenant Margaret Peterson’s face. The late snowstorm wasn’t uncommon.

      Welcome to Warfield, Ohio.

      With one gloved hand Margo held her coat closed at her throat. The other hand, ungloved, remained in her pocket as she hurried to her new car parked in the lot across from the bar. At 1:00 a.m. the streets were dark with minimal traffic. A lone streetlamp lent an angelic glow to the beautiful pearl color of her Lexus.

      Closing out a bar wasn’t new for her; usually at times like these, in the quiet of the night after hours of being sized up by hungry men, she felt like Margo, not Margaret, a woman instead of a lieutenant. Despite her reasons for being at the bar this time, playing the game left her feeling sexier, softer, more vulnerable—the opposite of her kick-ass cop persona.

      But right now, she was both soft woman and commanding lieutenant, balancing the image she needed to convey with the ability she’d honed.

      For months she’d been unofficially undercover, hoping to glean information on the bastards who ensnared women, forcing them into seedy porn movies that included bondage, domination and some sick, sexually inspired discipline.

      If the women had been willing, well then, she’d leave them to it. Who was she to judge? She wasn’t a hypocrite; she believed in consenting adults doing as they pleased.

      But abducted women? Abused women?

      The first young lady who’d come to them had been disoriented, confused and so incredibly scared. The bastards had grabbed her, blindfolded her and taken her to a vacant building, where they’d forced her to star in an underground porno. Maybe they’d let her go because they knew they’d be cleared out by the time anyone would find their location.

      And maybe, just maybe, they had planned to only do one video. But like most sick fucks, once they got a taste of their perversion, they wanted more.

      Margaret detested all bullies, took great pleasure in bringing down criminals, but she had a very special, deep-rooted red-hot hatred for men who sexually mistreated women. It was the worst type of degradation, the most demoralizing thing that could happen to a female.

      Her heart beat harder, faster, just thinking of it. Fury rivaled the cold, heating her from the inside out with molten hatred.

      Eventually, one way or another, she would crack this case and annihilate the ones responsible—or die trying.

      Hanging in local bars—the very locations where the women were often targeted—had seemed an ideal setup. For too many months, right through the holidays, she had spent several nights a week on the prowl...without a single nibble.

      Others had given up. The captain believed the bastards had either shut down or moved their enterprise elsewhere. In her bones, Margo sensed they were still around. And then, just last week, a woman showed up at the station. Bruised, traumatized, hysterical, she had barely escaped.

      That made four instances now, two of them fatal. Margaret was determined to get to the bottom of it, so on top of the reignited but routine investigation, she kept her eyes and ears open while trolling the “less respectable” bars.

      Nothing new in that, really.

      Being a female lieutenant with tough-as-nails notoriety complicated dating. And with her particular tastes...

      “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

      Before she could register that deep voice as someone she recognized, Margo had her coat open, her loaded Glock in her hand.

      The weapon didn’t faze him.

      Tall and handsome and far too carefree, he stared into her eyes. Even in the dim light through the never-ending sleet, she saw his crooked smile and she felt his anticipation.

      Well, hell. Spending hours in a classless bar amid nasty drunks had less impact on her tension than Dashiel Riske’s half smile.

      She didn’t lower the gun, but she did keep her finger off the trigger. “Stupid move, Dash.”

      “Approaching you in the dark?” He stepped closer and, moving her gun hand aside, put his fists in the lapels of her coat and pulled it closed against the blustering wind. The position had his hands near her breasts—and caused her heartbeat to stall. “Would you shoot me?”

      “No.” She was trained enough to discern a threat before firing. “But I might slug you.”

      Taking liberties, he slid his hands up and under her collar to draw her closer. “Is that forthcoming?” He angled his face down to hers. “Should I duck for cover?”

      “No.” If he weren’t so warm, she’d have pushed him away. Maybe.

      Dash was such a player, never taking anything seriously—most especially not women. Where other men hesitated, he forged on with sensual confidence born from success.

      For a while there he’d hung at СКАЧАТЬ